Wingardium Levoisa
by MayGirl85
Summary: Drabble. Hermione and Draco. Private moments of revelation and enlightenment as they watch and learn the perfection of the other betwixt the imperfections.
1. Wingardium Leviosa

_**Wingardium Leviosa**_

_AN. This will be a series of drabbles around Hermione/Draco discovering eachother's brilliance and perfections, despite their glaring imperfections and mutual dislike. It probably won't evolve into a story. But I do intend each drabble to be related in some way to the others. The story is entitled Wingardium Leviosa, as I see these drabbles as being about their relationship and mutual regard taking flight. I like the start of love stories really. We all know how they end. It's the getting there that is the delicious part :o) --- enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I own diddley-squat._

**Wingardium Leviosa**

Ever since the day he had met her she'd turned his world upside down.

His world, based purely on the beliefs of pureblood supremacy over the strangers, the mudbloods, in the wizarding world were slowly wiped away. He knew that his beliefs could have so easily been wiped away in the blink of an eye, but he was a stubborn wizard. He held onto his father's words and ideals. Deep in his own heart he was proud of his heritage and he was eager to preserve it. He feared a whitewashing of wizarding culture; and with the muggleborns forcing their muggle ways onto his world, he knew his fears had merit.

Nevertheless, he could no longer decree with absolute impunity the primacy of pureblooded wizards. Oh, he still wanted to see the wizarding world flourish and retain its historic essence and traditional elegance. But he would... _tolerate_ the muggleborns. How could he not? Crabbe and Goyle, two pureblooded wizards of noble families, were a stain on the pride of purebloods everywhere. Yet _she_, a nobody from nowhere, stood head and shoulders above them all. She had been the private envy of pureblooded parents everywhere; for in her small hands she held such power as they had hoped their children would achieve. With the war now over, these same felt privately beholden to her, and her friends, for delivering them from a madman. Him especially, for without her testimony he would have started his adult life in Azkaban. If the wizarding world could suffer Crabbe and Goyle, could call Hermione Granger its star, then it could stomach a few more muggleborns.

He sighed, the brandy swirling delicately in his glass with the rise and fall of his chest as memories of the witch filled his mind's eye. It was one of those nights; a time when he would close his eyes and remember with indistinct clarity every single moment of shame and awe she had inspired within him. It was ironic, he mused, how her very first lesson to him in truth had also been her last.

Plain, was what she was. Unnoticeable; certainly, at first. He'd been a proud young boy, eager to walk in his father's well-heeled footsteps. How excited he had felt when he'd walked into the classroom. How like a real wizard he'd felt with that first gasp of wand-magic rolling through his senses. _Wingardium Leviosa_. He'd been concentrating so hard, so determined to prove the Malfoy name, that he never noticed the feather across the room take flight. No, his whole world had been in his own feather, sitting so prettily upon his desk. He took his wand in his hand and flicked it once, twice and down, speaking the magic words as he did so. Nothing happened. His young grey eyes had narrowed upon the arrogant feather, and his wrist flicked once more and the words were spoken again.

The feather twitched.

Thouroughly perturbed, he studied the offensive object before flicking his wand up, to the side and determinedley down.

Wingardium Leviosa.

_Magic._

With a broad smile he watched as the feather lifted itself effortlessly into the air. He turned his eyes expectantly to the professor. The gnome-sized elf was not aware of his success. His wizened old eyes were instead turned toward _her_.

"Well done Miss Granger, ten points to Gryffindor."

_Granger? Gryffindor?_

He turned to Theo beside him, a question upon his lips.

"Who is the Granger family? I have never heard of them," he queried innocently, for the moment unaware of his own bigotry in presuming her pureblooded status.

"Noone has. She's a _mudblood."_

Impossible, was his immediate thought. Her kind were a blight upon the wizarding world. Her blood held no _true_ magic. She couldn't possibly be anything other than a pureblood, if perhaps one from an obscure family.

Sadly, Draco's presumption was proven quite incorrect. Not only was she a muggleborn, but actually _proud_ of it. Had he not been so exceedingly upset by the revelation he would have realised the first cracks of uncertainty and shame splinter his psyche. But like all young boys, he put aside his logic and held fast to his father's teachings. Why should he do otherwise? He was a Malfoy. But, again, like all young boys, he despised the fruit of her brilliance. He hated the truth she exposed in them all, even without trying. He sought to crush her, bully her, mercilessly taunting her with her one imperfection. It was all he had; and all he was allowed.

So young, too wise, he thought as the brandy burned down his throat. He'd never known the luxury of being anything but a _Malfoy_ as a boy. He'd known his place all too well at the tender age of eleven. He smiled bitterly at the memory. He'd been too indoctrinated to break free; but she had. She broke the mold as the years passed, continuing to thwart every attempt against her no matter the battlefield or the foe. She'd been so young, and so wise.

The battles she fought had become his own. Every victory was another nail in the coffin of his supremacist ideals, every success heightening his growing fear of the awful unknown. He fought it, desperately fleeing the day when he would become his own man. When he would become _more_ than a Slytherin, more than the son of a Death Eater, and more than a Malfoy.

That clear autumn night had been his coronation of undoing. He'd _known_ for so very long. _It_ had bubbled up inside him until _it_ was screaming to break free; to have him speak that unholy truth. His tongue had prickled inside of his mouth, twisting to form the sounds that he refused to speak. He could barely breath. Even the air inside of him rebelled at his command to be _silent_ and to be _still_. It howled in him for release, a tempest of the most agonising ecstasy. It fought against his self-imposed prison of bigotry and pride. It demanded to be heard, to be _admitted_.

Unable to sit quietly any longer in his common room he'd fled to the astronomy tower seeking solace and safety. It was only a matter of time before the words vomited themselves out of him, and when they did he could at least ensure that noone heard his shame. His young legs carried him all the way up the steps, as high as they would go until he reached the door to the tower's roof. Noone would be up here this late in autumn. It was far too cold to be out for a late night jaunt or snog.

The door opened before him, the magic of the castle anticpating his every want as it moved silently out of his way. He stepped out into the open night sky, and breathed deeply as if to fill the void within him. He knew it would not be long now. He was on the precipice of outright madness, and he almost cackled wildly at the thought of betraying his entire line. But any sound that could have escaped him was immediately and securely captured in his iron-clad control when he saw _her._

She stood up on one of the turrets, her arms stretched out as if embracing the night sky. He stood shocked and stunned at the sight of her cloaked in the dark of the night. The moon had hidden itself behind a cloud as if ashamed to cast its unworthy light upon her features so only the stars remained to witness her glory.

His hand twitched with the need to reach out to her, to pull her back to safety. It was widely known how afraid of flying and heights she was, so he could not understand why she was there.

Unless...

His mouth fell slack as his lips parted in silent denial. He'd heard no rumour of a breakdown or self-harm. Others had fallen to their inner scars after the war had ended only weeks ago. The school was rife with broken minds and hearts, but he'd never thought _she_ would fall prey to such demons.

She breathed in deeply before letting out a sigh, the movement forcing his foot to inch forward. He would have, had he the luxury and the mind at the time, snorted at his own _attempt_ at heroism. But then _her_ foot inched forward, and before he could take another step she'd fallen gracefully from her post and in that moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't believe what he'd just seen. He vaguely realised that he had fallen to his knees onto the cold, unforgiving, stone.

Looking back, he could laugh. Looking back, he could think of that night without a tight compression squeezing at his breast. Looking back, he could be appreciate that she had finally faced, and conquered, everything that had ever stood in her way. Looking back, he could be grateful for the two words that had begun his journey, and so eloquently closed the chapter upon his shame. Looking back, he could remember the exact moment when her indomitable brilliance had shone upon him and a new dawn had both enlightened and set free his poor, damned soul.

_Wingardium. Leviosa. _


	2. Muggleborn Studies

_**Wingardium Leviosa**_

_Disclaimer: I own diddley-squat._

**Muggleborn Studies**

She'd always envied him.

Not _him_ per se. She couldn't envy his death eater roots, the house that called him its Prince, or his prestigious name. No, she envied him his birth.

He'd been born in the wizarding world; into the elite of pureblood society. His luck in simply being born to wizards afforded him a natural affinity with all things wizard. He didn't simply know the culture, the social etiquette, the history... he _was_ the culture, the epitomy of wizarding etiquette, a living, breathing piece of modern history. Magic was as air to him, it _existed_ to him. He had never known otherwise.

She had. She had known a life without magic. The stark contrast between the impossibilities of the muggle world and the potentials of the magic world never ceased to amaze her. The crackle of a spell leaving the tip of her wand felt new each time. She loved magic. To her, it would never just _exist_ like the air around her existed. To her, it would always be a sweet incense tickling her senses. She would forever breathe each wonderful breath as if it were a dream that could one day just disappear.

She studied him whenever she had the chance, her eyes greedily drinking in every gesture and turn of phrase. Her need to learn _everything_ about wizarding society sung like a siren song in her heart, leading her toward the secret desire of her soul. She wanted more than just to be a muggleborn witch. She wanted to be as indelibly imprinted in the wizarding world as he was. She wanted to blend in like a wallflower so that none could tell she had ever been a muggleborn. She wanted to _belong_.

Was it no wonder that she sought to educate herself in every possible thing? The fact that she achieved the highest grades in the school was merely incidental to her thirst to more than _know_ wizardry, but to _be_ it; _live it_.

It hurt that _he_ hated her. It hurt because it conflicted with her desire to belong, to be accepted as a real witch, and not just tolerated. He represented everything she wanted to be; it was only natural she wanted his approval, even if she realised she fought a losing battle. She'd known that since the very first time he'd taunted her for her heritage, and realised in that instant that no matter her achievement he would never accept her.

She sought to be the best after that. Found every opportunity to demonstrate her power and prowess. If he refused to acknowledge her, then she would force him to. If she could not have his acceptance then she would revel in his scorn.

It was only later that she realised he was a victim of the same illness. He too wanted to be accepted and acknowledged. Perhaps not by her or his peers, but certainly by his father. Despite the man's evil proclivities, she understood the need for a son to have his father's approval. The truth of Draco's desperate attempts to prove himself to his father were brought home one friday night at the end of fifth year.

The students had all mostly retired from the festivities held in the Great Hall celebrating the end of the school year. Hermione had even taken a break from her studies to attend with Harry and Ron. She'd worked hard all year and had been convinced that she'd deserved the break. Hours passed, and while she had enjoyed herself she could not help but notice that she'd seen nothing of the Slytherin Prince. But she put that thought aside. Her 'study' of him didn't extend to stalking the castle for him. Instead, she bid goodnight to her friends before slipping away to the sanctuary of the library. She had no real intention of studying; it was just that being amongst the old, dusty tomes lifted her spirits.

She'd just reached her favourite study nook when she saw him. She stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the spot upon seeing his silvered head laying prone upon the table beside an open book. It was clear he had been studying, and for quite some time if the gathered wax near the candles scattered around him was any indication.

Silently, she crept forward, her eyes trained on his sleep-slackened features. Reaching the table, she glanced down at the book he had been reading, noting that it was opened to the chapter on the magical properties of dragon's blood. She grimaced, knowing that he'd been studying for the upcoming Potion's exam which was almost sure to be a literal bloodbath of the worst kind. She herself had already taken extensive notes on the subject and pored over it every night before bed.

Her eyes skimmed the text, seeing that it held the main points but none of the minor points that the professor would be sure to put on the exam. Quietly, she slipped back between the bookshelves only to return a minute later with a small black leather bound book which did hold such information. Opening it to the page on dragon's blood, she placed it atop the book beside him, careful not to disturb his slumber.

Turning to leave, she stumbled slightly on an errant piece of parchment that had fallen to the floor. Picking it up, her eyes couldnt help but take in what was written...

_... expect nothing less than perfect scores..._

_... shameful that a mudblood..._

_... neglecting your studies is no excuse..._

_... you are a Malfoy..._

_...Regards. Father._

It was dated that morning. She quickly averted her eyes, realising the implications of such a letter. Carefully, she placed it in the pouch propped up against the chair upon which Draco slept before looking once m at his peaceful face.

A lock of blonde hair had fallen in his eyes at some point, and before she knew it she had reached out and gently tucked the delicate strands back behind his ear. Her hand lingered as she studied his maturing features. For so long she'd envied him, watched him from afar. How ironic that they should share the very same ailment as they fought to be accepted, to _belong_.

He stirred beneath her hand. Alarmed, she snatched it back and took several measured steps backwards before turning to disappear between the stacks.


End file.
